


Visiting Hours and Mounds of Dirt

by orphan_account



Category: South Park
Genre: Chapters are gonna be spaced out, Fluff, Gregory is super gay and doesn't know what to do with himself, Hurt/Comfort, Lots of childish shenanigans, M/M, New characters might be added in different chapters, Sick Character, Sickfic, Smoking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 17:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20624651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I must say I hate it when you're ill," Gregory sighed."Pourquoi?" Christophe asked, rustling beneath his bedsheets to try and ward off the discomfort."I miss you... ever so much," Gregory muttered, reaching out for Christophe's grimy hand.Christophe snickered, the snickering quickly turning into coughing, "That's gay, mon cher," he croaked."Oh hush, Frog, you're gay," Gregory huffed, rolling his eyes.





	1. Jumping Trees to Conclusions

Gregory sighed wistfully as he stood in the branching fence coincidentally linking his family’s massive estate property with Christophe’s humble home’s backyard. 

Unlike the pristine landscaping of his own home maintained almost exclusively by his father’s wallet and the grueling work of about five gardeners… and his mother’s idle time, Christophe’s backyard reeked of manure and was so full of holes you’d think the mountain-dwelling family had a prarie dog problem. 

This day was special, not in a positive way, but in a dire way. It had been three full days since he’d seen his friend- no, boyfriend, he supposed was the proper terminology- at school and was turned away with no explanation at his front door. 

Something must be wrong… 

Maybe Christophe went out on a covert operations mission alone and was mortally wounded, his mothers deciding to cover it up and mourn in silence. 

Maybe his family was moving away and Christophe couldn’t bear to break the news to Gregory himself… just drifting away without a moment’s notice. 

The thoughts of what it all could be pounded in Gregory’s head and the Englishman decided that he’d wait no longer, he’d see Christophe even if he had to find a way to sneak in through the front door. 

Luckily, there would be no sneaking necessary, as a very large tree that had sprouted in Gregory’s backyard had thick, strong branches, leaking over so that there was a perfect perching limb right in front of Christophe’s bedroom window. 

Gulping back his pride, dusting himself off and climbing the tree, Gregory inched along through the dense tangle of branches and limbs until he slid along the one leading to Christophe’s window. 

Determined and confused, Gregory peered into Christophe’s window and saw nothing but a dense sheet of gray… as though someone had taped a piece of gray fabric above the window inside Christophe’s room. 

Gregory braced himself and inched closer until he was positioned right outside the mercenary’s window, now getting two sensations assaulting him at once. 

One sensation was the overwhelming stench of tobacco, burning his eyes and making him gag as he picked up on the second, which was aggressive, relentless hacking that sounded like it belonged to an unmasked coal miner rather than a 9-year-old boy. 

Gregory tilted his head to the side and felt a pang of nervousness jab his heart, making his eyes buck as he hurriedly flung open Christophe’s window, under the assumption the Frenchman’s house was on fire. 

A thick wave of smog bellowed out of the window and Gregory could finally get a good look at the inside of Christophe’s bedroom, which looked like it always did. 

Stains on the floor from previous muddy footprints, burns in the wood of the young boy’s desk in one corner from ashing cigarettes on it, a chest filled with rather adorable toys sitting against the wall, and an Audrey Hepburn poster covered up a Justin Beiber poster, which covered up a blood-stained map of France. 

Gregory blinked and rubbed his eyes, before hearing the groggy voice of the captor of his thoughts croak from inside. 

“Hm? What the fuck?” 

Gregory’s heart raced as Christophe leaned forward, looking with tired eyes out the window at Gregory, cigarette dangling from his mouth as it tended to, and his freckled face flushed darker along his cheeks and nose. 

“Get in, if my mothers see my window open they will make me go downstairs and lie in despair while I listen to fucking Ellen Degeneres talk about some shit no one cares about,” Christophe hissed, dragging Gregory into the window and slamming it shut. 

Gregory tumbled onto Christophe’s floor and looked up at him, panting and noticing small things about the corner of the room that held Christophe’s bed- the corner he couldn’t see from the window. 

A stack of thumbed-through comic books stood proudly next to a half-empty tissue box, a glass of water, and an ashtray on The Mole’s nightstand, right in front of his lamp. 

A folded dish towel waded about in a bowl of ice water on Christophe’s dresser, next to a dark blue jar and a digital thermometer. 

Gregory sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“What is it, mon amour?” Christophe choked out, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“I’m an idiot,” Gregory sighed. 

“I do not see why you came to see me so you could beat yourself up and have me console you, are you having a rough time?” Christophe scoffed, taking a sip from the glass of water. 

Gregory peered over at Christophe, who was clutching his favorite stuffed giraffe in one arm and wiping his face off with the back of the other arm’s wrist, the slightly olive-skinned boy gave off a strong scent that Gregory couldn’t quite name. 

Yes, there was the thick, rough amalgamation of ash and dirt that Gregory had come to expect… but this was different, it was more intense, almost chemical… It was menthol, strong, powerful menthol masked by the vague hint of a cherry’s scent. 

“You might have told me!” Gregory huffed indignantly. 

“Quoi?” Christophe asked, rolling onto his side and pulling his bedsheets back up to his chest. 

“You’ve been ill this whole time!?” Gregory interrogated. 

“Oui,” Christophe yawned. 

“I didn’t know where you were!” Gregory yelped. 

“I sent you two voice messages after my mothers turned you away at the door, one for each day,” Christophe croaked, “You get so many voice mails that you lost track of mine, mon cher?” 

“Wh-well… no, I… oh quiet you!... How are you feeling?” Gregory asked. 

“Like shit,” Christophe snipped back, coughing out a quick burst of ash from the last puff of his cigarette, before coughing harder and spitting up something yellow and sticky into his left hand. 

“Euchh… disgusting,” Gregory scoffed. 

“Mhm, if you came to talk about how filthy and disgusting I am, you can leave and I can go back to sleep,” Christophe sighed. 

“No, no I… that’s not what I meant… that cough certainly doesn’t sound like it’s getting any better,” Gregory noted. 

“It isn’t,” Christophe growled. 

Gregory grabbed the jar from the dresser- after getting on his toes to reach- and smeared a glob of menthol rub onto his hand, “May I?” he asked. 

“Euchh, if you must… I wish you’d just hug me… I’d feel much better,” Christophe snickered, grinning as he outstretched his arms. 

“Oh hush, we can cuddle another time,” Gregory scoffed. 

Christophe sighed as Gregory smeared the strong-smelling grease on his shoulders and back. 

Christophe gasped, choking back a cough as he punched Gregory in the arm, hearing footsteps in the hallway, “My mother is coming! Hide!” he whispered. 

Gregory gasped and rolled underneath Christophe’s bed as Adrienne, one of the French boy’s mothers, wandered in and peered through the door. 

“Christophe?” Adrienne asked. 

Christophe wiped the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand, “Oui?” he inquired. 

“Are you alright?” Adrienne asked. 

“Oui… as alright as I can be,” Christophe panted, rubbing his eyes with his fists and blinking at his mother slowly. 

“Okay then, I’m surprised your little boyfriend Gregory didn’t try and come see you today,” Adrienne scoffed. 

“Well you and Maman kept turning him away, he probably assumed you’d say no again,” Christophe croaked, gulping as he felt Gregory shift underneath his bed, “Augh!” 

“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” Adrienne asked, tilting her head to the side. 

“N-nothing… just… shifting… I felt a pain in my back,” Christophe groaned. 

“Okay… I’ll be back later, me petit,” Adrienne crooned, walking in and kissing Christophe’s forehead before leaving the room. 

When the door closed, Gregory crawled back out and relaxed at Christophe’s feet, shutting his eyes, “You’re warm… like a radiator,” he yawned. 

Christophe rubbed his upper arms, “I beg t-to differ… I’m freezing,” he mumbled, teeth chattering. 

Gregory embraced Christophe in a tight hug and pressed the back of his hand to the French boy’s forehead, feeling a deep, radiating warmth that seared the skin cells of his hand. 

“Poor dear,” Gregory whispered, his sultry voice only making the flush on Christophe’s face deepen as the brunette’s glazed-over eyes vacantly watched the Brit placed before them. 

“Hold me,” Christophe choked out, the husk of his raw throat making the words sound like someone trying to whisper into their cell phone while the connection was breaking up. His arms stretched out and wrapped around Gregory’s shoulders, hands linking behind his back and head propped against the crook of Gregory’s neck. 

Gregory tisked and rolled his eyes, rubbing circles into his boyfriend’s back until Christophe’s breathing steadied and Gregory couldn’t feel the intense vibrations of the boy’s shivering. 

Christophe sighed, giving a few weak coughs as he seemingly fell asleep against Gregory, slumping downward and relaxing in bed once Gregory shifted. 

“There we are, much better,” Gregory muttered triumphantly, pantomiming the act of dusting off his hands before tucking Christophe in and kissing his forehead, leaving a small clicker on his bedside table with a note. 

‘ _ I have to go so your mothers don’t see me… if you need me again, press the clicker and I’ll be right over… feel better, comrade. -Love, Gregory’  _

When Christophe woke up a couple of hours later, peering into the night and feeling uncomfortably tight-skinned from the burning heat of his fever, tiny droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead like condensation from a glass of cold water, he glanced over at the letter and weakly smiled. Gulping and clutching his stuffed giraffe, Christophe pressed down on the clicker a couple of times. 

About ten minutes later, a pair of eyes stood out against the dark night sky behind Christophe’s bedroom window before it flung open and Chris could see Gregory’s stupid face. 

“Well goodness, you certainly don’t look any better,” Gregory tisked, rolling onto Christophe’s bed and lowering the window until it was only open enough to let the cool breeze trickle through. 

“You are no prize either, cherie,” Christophe giggled, reaching out and beckoning for a hug. 

Gregory rolled his eyes, “There are more important matters to be settled right n-” 

“-We are not sitting behind a corridor preparing to slice the head off a foreign diplomat, we are in my bedroom and you are sitting on my legs, hug me you Limey Bastard,” Christophe choked out between wheezy laughter, slapping his blanket-covered knee as though that statement was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. 

“You poor soul, you’re so feverish that you’ve set fire to your brain completely,” Gregory teased, “Damn Frog.” 

Christophe huffed and pouted, extending his arms again and releasing a grunt of frustration. 

Gregory embraced Christophe, snickering as he thumped the French boy’s back, only to feel his boyfriend shiver and grip him tighter as his breathing steadied. 

Letting Christophe go and settling him back into a lying position, Gregory reached over for the bowl of ice water and wrung out the towel before wiping off Christophe’s face and chest. 

“Hm… your ashtray is empty…” Gregory muttered. 

“You helped me sleep… I feel so nice… won’t smoke until later… hid my cigarettes out of reach until I can get out of bed…” Christophe croaked exhaustedly, giving Gregory a weak smile. 

Gregory kissed Christophe briefly- on the lips this time, as all European romantics tend to do- and tucked a filthy lock of Christophe’s hair behind his prominent ears. 

“You going to be alright?” Gregory asked. 

Christophe nodded, his eyelids drooping as he conked out the second his head hit the pillow, congested breathing and small relieved sighs interrupting the silence of the still night. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Frog Prince, sleep well,” Gregory said softly as he climbed out of Christophe’s window and slid back into the tree. 

Christophe’s eyelids parted briefly and he grinned, whispering “Goodnight, mon amour,” and going back to sleep. 

  
  
  



	2. Jumping Trees to Conclusions pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What goes around, comes around... at least I hope that's the saying

Gregory blinked as he stared listlessly at his ceiling, tracing the intricate swirls of the magnificent oil painting on his ceiling, his large room in his family’s mansion still and empty. 

Rolling over in bed, Gregory sighed and reached out onto his nightstand and grabbed the television remote, changing the channel from a bland history network show to Terrance and Philip, glancing around to make sure his parents still weren’t home. 

“ _ Say, Terrance, I made burritos, try one! _ ” 

“ _ Okay! _ ” 

Gregory found himself giggling deliriously at the first fart joke and flushing with embarrassment, masking his laughter with partially voluntary coughing, whistling for his dog, Dutchess, to join him on his bed, not minding that the soft and lush comforter would be coated with dog fur. 

“A la la, look at you, degraded to watching what you consider ‘mindless garbage’,” 

Gregory yelped and rolled out of bed, hitting the floor. 

“Pauvre chose, look at you,” Christophe teased, crawling into the room through the window. 

Gregory yawned, crawling back into bed, “Good Morning, I see someone’s feeling better,” he chuckled. 

Christophe snickered, a drawn out wheeze of a laugh choking him until he spat something into his hand and smeared it on his pants, “Oui, j’ai toujours une toux, mais peu importe*,” he sighed, taking a deep breath. 

Gregory started to pet Dutchess’ head, shuddering as he adjusted one of his pillows, leaning against it. 

“Why aren’t you at school?” Gregory asked, raising an eyebrow, “It’s 9 in the morning.” 

“I could ask you the same, you don’t look like that bastard in the sky has a knife to your throat,” Christophe muttered, leaning against the mahogany footboard of Gregory’s bed. 

“Well unlike you, I don’t have a chest infection because I don’t smoke like it’s 1941,” Gregory snipped jovially, his voice slightly hoarse. 

“Then why are you lying in bed with that mangy mutt at 9 o'clock on a school day trying to pretend you don’t think Terrance and Philip are funny?” Christophe asked. 

“My mother demanded that I stay home from school, she has errands to run and said it would be too tedious to pick me up if the school nurse sent me home,” Gregory yawned. 

“Sorry I got you sick,” Christophe apologized. 

“Oh it’s quite alright, it appears to be going around at school anyways, I heard my mother on the telephone with the principal last night talking about it, and a few children were missing yesterday,” Gregory mentioned. 

“Ah…” Christophe announced, seemingly focused on eyeing Dutchess rather than the discussion at hand. 

Gregory shifted and climbed out of bed, planting his feet in his slippers and sliding his bathrobe on top of his pajamas, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose and gripping the side of his bed to fight the dizziness brought on by standing. 

“Why are you wearing that?” Christophe chuckled. Gregory’s eyes lit up a little, hearing the emphatic “zhat” at the tail end, Christophe’s accent making his stomach flutter even though it was commonplace long before now. 

“Mother said that I had to keep warm if I was going to get out of bed, they only left the heat on in my bedroom… they have security cameras and if she sees that I left the room without this on she’ll have my head when she gets home,” Gregory rambled, “Come with me downstairs, I’ll tell you what happened last night while I make some tea.” 

Christophe followed, anxiously stepping to ensure that his filth didn’t leech into the pristine floors and carpeting that the family kept in their vast mansion… and also to avoid Dutchess. He perked up his ears and focused as Gregory laid into his long-winded story. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_ The evening before, Gregory was in his father’s study, lazily draped across the sofa in the back of the room while reading upside down from an almanac while his father did… whatever his father does at his computer.  _

_ “Apparently eggplants and squash are different members of the same family, Father,” Gregory announced proudly, idly kicking his feet as he flicked a damp piece of hair out of his face.  _

_ “Positively marvelous, son,”  _

_ Gregory smiled triumphantly, staring at the pages of the almanac and finding them harder to read… maybe reading upside down was taking a bit of a toll on his brain. He turned the book right side up again and found that it was still vaguely fuzzy. Peculiar indeed… maybe it was time for a break.  _

_ Gregory sat up, putting the atlas back and flopping back onto the sofa, gulping and finding that the swallow stung a little. “Father, I’m going to make some tea, would you like some?” Gregory asked, batting the damp hair out of his face again.  _

_ “We already had tea this evening after dessert, you go on ahead, just come back, I’d like to hear some more dazzling facts while I finish up my work before your bedtime,”  _

_ Gregory nodded, “Of course,” he replied, clearing his throat before walking downstairs to find his mother in the kitchen, the kettle already on and whistling.  _

_ “Hello Gregory, done with reading to your father for tonight?” Beatrice, Gregory’s mother, asked pleasantly.  _

_ “Not quite, just wanted something to soothe my throat, black tea or herbal?” Gregory stated, gesturing to the kettle after his question.  _

_ “Lavender, what’s the matter with your throat?” Beatrice asked tentatively, lowering to Gregory’s eye level.  _

_ “Nothing, truly, just a lot of idle chatter in that dry old study,” Gregory explained, briefly putting a hand to his throat, “I ought to stop talking until I have something to drink, it only seems to be getting worse.”  _

_ Beatrice raised Gregory’s chin with her index finger, observing his face keenly as she hummed to herself, “You look a bit pale,” she noted.  _

_ Gregory opened his mouth to object until he felt an icy sensation run up his spine, shivering and glancing up at Beatrice, “It’s cold down here… I think I've gotten a chill," Gregory mumbled behind chattering teeth and sparse sniffles.  _

_ Beatrice rested the back of her hand to Gregory’s forehead, “You feel a bit warm,” she stated, wiping her hands off on her skirt, “You run along, I’ll have the maid run you a bath.”  _

_ After his bath, Gregory was sitting on his parents’ bed, thermometer under his tongue as his mother fussed over him.  _

_ “100.3, go on and get into bed, you’ll be staying home from school tomorrow,” Beatrice breathed, running her manicured fingers through Gregory’s hair.  _

_ “Wake up,”  _

_ “Hm?”  _

_ “Wake. Up.”  _

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gregory shivered, blinking rapidly and surveying the area around him, feeling something hot and wet covering his front, “What the hell?!” he snapped, “I was in the middle of my story!” 

“You told no story, cher, you said a single half-sentence about your father and started staring into space while I made your tea for you, then you said another half-sentence, dropped the cup and stood there for thirty minutes, I was timing you, thought you were having a seizure,” Christophe scoffed. 

Gregory scoffed, before looking down and seeing the shattered mug on the floor, the pieces scattered around his feet and the stress of imagining what his father would say- the mug was his father’s after all- made him unbearably upset as his heart raced. 

“Gregory?” Christophe asked, leaning over to try and snap Gregory out of it, the blonde starting to breathe rapidly, his face getting redder and redder. 

“I… I… oh bother! Now, father’s going to… going to… C-Chris?” Gregory gasped in between holding both arms out and trying to survey his spotting vision. 

“Quoi?” Christophe asked, paying attention to Gregory’s feet and making sure they didn’t touch the glass. 

Gregory grabbed the collar of Christophe’s shirt, blinking slowly and meeting his boyfriend with a wide smile before pressing the back of his wrist over his eyes and collapsing onto the floor. 

When Gregory opened his eyes, he felt something cold on his face, glancing up and seeing a washcloth… and Christophe’s slightly worried face. 

“What happened?” Gregory asked. 

“You fell, glad you’re awake, you are very ill, mon amour,” Christophe muttered, “You’re very hot.” 

“Why goodness, I don’t think now’s the time, darling,” Gregory flushed, chuckling as he plucked a tissue from the box on his nightstand and wiped his nose. 

“No, I mean your forehead, you’re burning,” Christophe chuckled, tapping Gregory on the nose. 

“Oh I feel the flames licking my skin as we speak,” Gregory huffed, shuffling and feeling his cool bedsheets, looking surprised, “Did you carry me back to bed?” 

Christophe nodded, “But of course,” he giggled to himself. 

Gregory glanced at his clock, “An hour until my mother comes home,” he croaked, “I feel positively dreadful… and I never got to drink my tea!”

Christophe glanced around before getting on Gregory’s bed, extending his arms, “I think I have something that will make you feel better,” he said softly. 

Gregory shivered a little but grinned, ecstatically letting Christophe hug him as the two flopped onto Gregory’s bed and sighed in relief, feeling Christophe run his messy fingers through his sweaty blonde mass of hair. 

“Thank you ever so much, Chris,” Gregory yawned, “You never did tell me why you weren’t at school today.” 

“I wanted to see you,” Christophe whispered. 

Gregory sniffled and gave a weak smile, gripping Christophe’s hand and slowly falling asleep. 

Christophe heard Beatrice pull into the driveway and gulped, hurriedly reaching in the corner of the room, something that he’d put down before approaching Gregory, hurrying to the windowsill and barreling into the tree back to his house. 

When Gregory awoke a few hours later, he found Christophe’s dingy stuffed giraffe and a note scrawled out in sloppy English. 

‘ _ For you. Hug it and it’ll smell like me… I’ll be back tomorrow, feel better, mon cher. - Love, Chris’ _

Gregory chuckled, hugging the giraffe and mumbling to himself, “My, my, Chris, you’ve got quite the long neck,” before choking himself out with laughter at his own joke, Dutchess scoffing abruptly from her position at the foot of Gregory’s bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complex French Translations:   
* 'I still have a cough, but no matter'


	3. When there's a Will, There's a Wendy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Anyway, her name is Wendy,” he mentioned, “and she’s very intelligent.” 
> 
> “Since when do you bother yourself with ‘hers’? Let alone American ‘hers’?” Christophe chuckled

“Why are you talking to that American bitch?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Gregory asked, having taken a seat near the slide to fan himself off and tug at the silken fabric of his shirt. 

“You know what I’m talking about, the girl from that other class, the one with the black hair, why are you talking to her?” Christophe interrogated, shoving a handful of snow into his mouth. 

“You know, you ought to wash your hands if you’re going to eat, your hands are smattered with germs,” Gregory corrected, sliding further down until he was practically lying in the snow, panting a little. 

“Says you,” Christophe huffed, shoveling more snow into his mouth and licking his lips, taking a juice box from his pocket and squirting it onto the mound of powder. 

Gregory scoffed and rolled his eyes, “Anyway, her name is Wendy,” he mentioned, “and she’s very intelligent.” 

“Since when do you bother yourself with ‘hers’? Let alone  **American ** ‘hers’?” Christophe chuckled, taking a drag of his cigarette, flicking the burnt-up tip onto the ground and watching the embers melt the snow as he held his breath before coughing out an interestingly-shaped plume of smoke. 

“If you must know, she happens to be very interested in my previous schooling, seeing as I-” Gregory began. 

“If you say one word about Yardale, I will do to you what my people did to that bitch Marie and her pussy-footed husband Louis,” Christophe snarled. 

“Your France-isms bear no significance with me, Frog, the revolution’s been over for ages, lighten up,” Gregory chuckled. 

Christophe smiled, scoffing as he sank his teeth into another mound of snow, licking his lips and drooling as he shoveled the crystalized water onto his tongue, not minding when his mouth came in contact with his grungy fingertips. 

Gregory toyed with a strand of his hair and groaned, “Goodness it’s hot,” he complained. 

“It’s barely warm enough for us to be out for recess and you’re wearing a shirt that shows half your chest, it is not hot,” Christophe mumbled, rolling his eyes. 

Gregory held his wrist in front of his eyes, fanning himself off with the other hand, “Oh my, I feel rather faint,” he mused. 

“Shut up,” Christophe snipped, rolling his eyes again as he continued to pack snow into his mouth, only stopping when he wound up with a mouthful of ice-cold dirt instead after dipping into the same spot one too many times. 

“Hi, Gregory!” Wendy announced, waving at the brit excitedly, adjusting her hat. 

“Hello, Wendy,” Gregory sighed, scrambling to his feet and adjusting his hair. 

“Why aren’t you wearing a jacket?” Wendy asked. 

“European tradition, this is all the jacket I need,” Gregory chuckled. 

Christophe muttered, “Bullshit,” under his breath.

“Oh… Okay! Sometime this week can I come over to your house and look at those old European history books you told me you found?” Wendy asked, clasping both hands together in front of her and rocking back and forth on her heels. 

Gregory flushed briefly and bit his lip, “S-sure,” he stammered, waving as Wendy hurried off elsewhere, presumably to chatter with the other girls, “I do believe I made a rather nice impression on her, what do you think?” 

“I think you’re a dumb bitch, and that your nose is running,” Christophe snickered, “you’re pathetic.” 

Gregory pawed around in his pants pockets looking for something and sighed, flopping into the snow on his back, pressing the pointed tip of his upturned nose as it slowly turned pink. 

Christophe sucked his cigarette in one deep breath, burning the tobacco stick down to the filter and stomping it out as he let the smoke trail out of his nose, reaching into his pocket and pulling a surprisingly-pristine handkerchief out, handing it to Gregory. 

“Where… how did you… why is it  **clean** ?!” Gregory asked, shocked. 

“I use facial tissue like everyone else, cherie, I just keep that one in my pocket for you,” Christophe elaborated, sharply exhaling and letting an ash-laced cloud of smoke puff out into the air before lighting another cigarette. 

“Awww… you’re so sweet,” Gregory sighed, kissing Christophe’s cheek, only to be shoved back into the snow by the blushing recipient. 

“Non, not here, not now… bathroom, after class, then you can finish,” Christophe giggled, leaning down and sucking back the thick plume of ash he was prepared to blow out, kissing Gregory on the forehead and tilting his own head to the sky to exhale. 

“You know, we could kiss if you didn’t insist on playing chimney for the 50 minutes we have outside,” Gregory huffed. 

“I’m not allowed to play chimney but you’re allowed to play leaky faucet?” Christophe snickered. 

“Oh hush! If I weren’t a civilized being I’d smack you with my glove you ruffian,” Gregory retorted. 

“You aren’t wearing gloves, cher, and there’s nothing in your pockets,” Christophe said nonchalantly. 

Gregory looked at his feet, embarrassed as Christophe scooped another handful of snow off the ground and shoved it into his mouth. 

“You never explained why you were talking to Wendy,” Christophe huffed, folding his arms as he pinched the tip of his cigarette and stood with his hands in his pockets.

“A connection to the rest of the children, I suppose, she seems to be rather fond of me, though I obviously don’t return her advances… a way to get the children from that Garrison fellow’s class to notice us,” Gregory rambled. 

“We work undercover, we aren’t supposed to be noticed,” Christophe retorted. 

“Fair,” Gregory sighed, “I’m rather bored… and cold, I wish we could go inside.” 

Christophe jabbed Gregory in the back, “Make yourself faint and I’ll carry you inside to take you to the infirmary,” he suggested. 

Gregory nodded excitedly, crossing his eyes and staring with intense focus until his eyelids drooped and he swayed slightly on his feet, biting his lip and pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as he collapsed into Christophe’s arms. 

“Dramatic bastard,” Christophe laughed, kissing Gregory’s unconscious right hand and carrying him inside, before smiling triumphantly to himself as he walked through the school hallway, thinking about the security of his position. 

‘ _ Wendy could never… and will never… all is right with the world _ ,’ 

  
  
  



	4. Chickens and Termites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe I have termites again..." Christophe grunted
> 
> "Do you mean to tell me you've had them before?!" Gregory asked indignantly. 
> 
> "Oui, is that a problem?" Christophe snickered. 
> 
> "Wh- I- Oh bloody hell, no, honestly, it isn't, but goodness gracious you're a filthy little bastard," Gregory huffed. 
> 
> "I'm your filthy little bastard," Christophe giggled. 
> 
> "True," Gregory retorted

“Now where did you come from, little fellow?” Gregory asked, sticking his head inside a log out in the woods where he and Christophe were ‘playing and definitely not planning to rob the general store tomorrow, Mother’. 

“Stop teasing it, it’ll peck your eyes out, then you’ll get some random parasite and die,” Christophe hissed, smacking Gregory on the back. 

“That is not true,” Gregory scoffed, rolling his eyes, poking the chicken that was hiding inside the massive log on the head. 

“Oui, it is, just you watch,” Christophe snickered, adding a few more sketchy directional steps to their robbery map in red chalk, taking his chalk-coated hand and scratching his arm. 

Gregory peeked over the log, watching Christophe scratch, “We’re right by the pond, you know, you could wash off some of the dirt, maybe you wouldn’t itch so badly,” he suggested. 

Christophe hissed, “Fuck you.” 

Gregory scoffed, taking out a box of barred soap and a washcloth, “Come, we can bathe together,” he suggested, tugging the French boy along and wading in the pond water, scrubbing himself off with the soap and gesturing for Christophe to come closer, helping him do the same. 

After a bit, the pond water was murky where Christophe waded, his body completely clean of dirt and grime, shuddering a little from being stark naked in the cold water. 

“Brilliant! Look at you, don’t you feel better?” Gregory said suavely. 

“Non, cold, embarrassed, still itchy,” Christophe complained, scratching at his arm again. 

Gregory sighed, rolling his eyes and climbing out of the pond, finding that he too was shivering as he extended his hand to pull Christophe out of the water, “Come along then, we’ll go to my house, Terrance and Philip is on in twenty minutes,” he announced. 

Christophe followed Gregory- now in his underwear- along the back trail near Stark’s pond that led to the three or four mansion properties in South Park, one of them being the blonde’s house. 

Slipping into the massive backyard and blank-faced as he passed the landscaping team while wearing nothing but a pair of waterlogged briefs, Gregory knocked on the back door, waiting patiently as he shifted his clothes in his hands, tucking them under his arm. 

Beatrice- Gregory’s mother- swung open the back door, eyes half-lidded as she gazed out into the backyard, “I thought I told you not to bother me while I was cooking until you were fin… huh? Who in bloody hell was at the door just now?” she muttered to herself, thinking that the knocking was from the landscapers. 

“Down here, Mother,” Gregory beckoned, watching as his mother’s eyes shifted. 

“Ah, there you a- Why are you naked?” Beatrice asked. 

“Confidential, Mother,” 

“Why are you  **wet** ?!” 

“Not telling,  **Mother** ,” 

“Why did you walk back here without clothes on?!” 

“I have underpants on, don’t I, Mother?” 

“Come in this instant, you too Chris, goodness, your fingertips are turning blue, what on Earth were you doing?!” Beatrice fussed, reaching into a hall closet and pulling out a towel, drying Gregory and Christophe off. 

Gregory scoffed as he felt Beatrice’s manicured hands rubbing through his soaked hair, aggressively toweling it off until he was bone dry, shuddering with his feet planted on the kitchen floor. 

Christophe peered over at Gregory, giggling as the blonde’s hair flopped down, straighter than half of the young-adult novel industry, against his back. The usual hairstyle Gregory wore with pride was the result of routine nights spent with hair curlers and a blasphemous amount of sticky, coagulated gel. 

Christophe flushed as he looked at Gregory attentively, his heart beating a little faster as he felt the brit grab his hand and pull him upstairs. 

Gregory dug through some drawers in his massive bedroom, pulling out a pair of pajamas and a pair of spare clothes for Christophe, “I know it’s Monday, but do you think your mums would let you stay the night?” he asked. 

“Probably not… still itchy… I think I have termites,” Christophe grunted, aggressively scratching his arms and eventually his back, “I shouldn’t have left my shovel at home.” 

“Oh, please, you don’t have termites… do you?” Gregory asked, tilting his head to the side as Christophe scratched, beginning to scratch at his shoulder himself. 

“I had fleas last month, wouldn’t put it past God to pull some bullshit like that,” Christophe complained, scratching at his abdomen, “Fucking hell, what is happening?!” 

Gregory peeked at Christophe’s abdomen, “What’s that on your tummy?” he asked, gesturing toward the French boy’s slimmer belly. 

Gregory’s tummy was a bit fuller and pudgier than Christophe’s, well-fed and attending all of his meals, welcome to snacks whenever he wishes, he was a full-figured and rosy-cheeked little stripling, as all little boys should be. 

Christophe, on the other hand, was much thinner, slim enough for his abdomen to near concavity, ribs outlined under his skin a bit. Truth be told, he didn’t have an issue with food, and his mothers could certainly afford more than enough food, but he was always out rooting around in the woods and digging holes. Save for exactly one piece of  _ pain au chocolat _ when he got home from school, he didn’t eat much during the day. 

On Christophe’s slim stomach, there were five spots, raised against his vaguely pale olive skin and an angry pinkish-red color, plus about three spots on his chest. 

“A la la… what is that?” Christophe asked, looking and finding a couple more on his arms, and two on each foot, “What the hell?!” 

Gregory peered down at his own belly, realizing that he had a few scattered spots forming some kind of cultish circle around his belly button and branching out until they scattered, “Oh dear…” he gasped. 

“Maybe it’s from the plants… in the woods… maybe we’re gonna die,” Christophe speculated, continuing to scratch. 

Gregory bit his lip, putting his pajamas on and holding up a finger at Christophe before rushing downstairs, Christophe following reluctantly, “Mother!” he called out. 

Beatrice was sitting in the kitchen, phone to her ear as she talked with someone, twirling the telephone cord with her finger as she discussed something about grocery delivery and designer handbags. 

“Mother,” 

“Ah yes, I know I was looking at that handbag in the store window too, but I didn’t have Leonard’s credit card with me and I just-” 

“Mother…” 

“I tried going in and putting it on reserve but I had to use the 600 dollar deposit on the reservation to pay one of the maids and I just didn’t know how I was going to live without that bloody bag, it’s so pretty-” 

“ **Mother** -”

“It’s got pearls on the clasp and pretty leather on the outside with that pattern and the inside is pure velvet! Leonard promised he’d buy me one, what a sap, I adore him so, I wonder if I can-” 

“MOTHER!” 

“Bloody hell, I’ll call you back Sheila,” Beatrice sighed, hanging up the phone, “What is it, Gregory? Mummy’s busy talking to Mrs. Broflovski on the telephone.” 

“I need to know if Chris and I have got some sort of fungal infection that will kill us, we’ve got plans tomorrow,” Gregory said indignantly. 

“What?” Beatrice asked. 

Gregory pulled up his pajama shirt, “What are these?” he asked. 

Beatrice dropped the wine glass she’d been holding in her idle hand, not even blinking as it shattered on the floor. 

“Mother?” Gregory asked, eyes widening as he felt Beatrice’s cool, freshly-manicured hands touching his forehead and cheeks. 

“You feel warm… oh dear… I think you might have chickenpox,” Beatrice fussed. 

“The hell is she talking about?” Christophe whispered. 

“Euhh… Uh…  _ La Varicelle _ ,” Gregory elaborated in french. 

“Ahh… Damnit! I thought I had termites! You’ve kicked me in my groin and spat in my face once again, God, you ruthless bitch!” Christophe barked at the ceiling. 

“What’s wrong with your little boyfriend, dear?” Beatrice asked. 

“Same thing, look,” Gregory elaborated, pulling up Christophe’s shirt to reveal the spots. 

“Oh h dear, alright, you two grab a snack and go relax on the sofa, I’ll call Christophe’s mothers so they can drop off some clothes,” Beatrice sighed. 

Gregory tugged at Christophe’s shirt and pushed a stool over to the pantry, swinging the doors open and reaching on his tippy-toes to get the jar of soft chocolate chip cookies from the very top shelf, handing a couple to Christophe and taking a few for himself before hopping back down and wandering into the living room. 

The two boys relaxed on the sofa watching Terrance and Philip, eating cookies. Christophe had polished off one, handed the other over to Gregory, and flopped over into Gregory’s lap, drowsily giggling as he uncomfortably scratched at his skin. 

The door swung open and the burly figure of Gregory’s father bounded through the ground floor of the mansion. 

“I’m home, picked up the clothes from down the street you asked me to collect, Bea,” Leonard, Gregory’s father, said in his booming voice, dropping a suitcase near the living room and his briefcase by the kitchen entryway. 

Gregory peered over the back of the sofa, rubbing Christophe’s head as Leonard entered the room, hands on his hips as he scoffed at the TV. 

“Hello Son,” Leonard greeted. 

“Father,” Gregory replied, kissing Christophe’s forehead. 

“In your pajamas lounging about watching this mindless drivel on a school night? What’s gotten into you, boy?” Leonard snipped, rolling his eyes, “The rugby match is on tonight, run along and go find something to read.” 

“Leave them alone, Leonard, you can watch the game in our bedroom or the den upstairs, the two little turtledoves aren’t well,” Beatrice chided. 

“How wonderful, I’ll be in the den, let me know when supper’s ready,” Leonard sighed, wandering upstairs. 

Gregory polished off his last cookie and yawned, feeling vaguely warm and drowsy, he nudged Christophe to wake him up. 

“Mmm… wha?” Christophe murmured sleepily. 

“How many spots have you got?” Gregory whispered. 

“ _ Je ne sais pas _ ,” Christophe yawned. 

“Let me count yours and then you count mine, we can take a nap afterward until my mum’s done with dinner,” Gregory whispered gleefully. 

“I’m tired,” Christophe groaned, digging in his invisible pockets, “Need a cigarette.” 

“Later, love, turn around and let me count,” Gregory whispered, pulling up Christophe’s shirt and inching around his form, counting every last dot and noting the appearance of new ones, “36...37...38...uhhmm… about 40… whoops, 42.” 

Christophe sighed, taking his turn and counting sleepily, coming to a dizzy consensus, “50… 51,” he yawned, stretching out. 

“Hmm, how peculiar, I suppose that means I win… technically,” Gregory giggled. 

“Shut up and go to sleep, Limey Bastard,” Christophe mumbled, flopping his warm body against Gregory’s and falling asleep, Gregory curling up a little and doing the same, the two boys sharing an embrace for what felt like hours. 

Until Gregory’s dog came in and made Christophe fall onto the floor, but we can pretend that doesn’t happen for the time being and just focus on the blissful exhausted relaxation of two young little lovebirds. 

  
  



	5. Blissful Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I do wish you'd talk to me, this is childish" Gregory huffed. 
> 
> Christophe scoffed to himself, if he could speak- which he couldn't- he'd still refuse to respond to the Brit with the way he was carrying on out of pure spite... well, not really, he hated seeing Gregory so upset... but the malevolent thought still makes him a badass. So there.

“You left without saying anything to me yesterday, you know…” Gregory sighed, leaning into Christophe’s window from his perch in the usual tree. 

Silence. 

“What did I do?” Gregory asked. 

More silence. 

“Christophe… I adore you… you’re my best friend… is it what I said about your cat?” Gregory asked. 

The meow of Christophe’s cat, Giraffe, was the only sound that trickled out of the window. 

Gregory sighed, rolling over into the window and flopping onto Christophe’s bed, before rolling further onto the floor. 

Christophe was in his room, which confirmed to Gregory that the French boy was ignoring him, but he wasn’t exactly where Gregory expected. 

Christophe was usually scribbling on maps at his desk, Giraffe at his side, or reading comic books on his jungle-themed rug near his other window. 

The mercenary, on this momentous occasion, was sitting in bed, petting Giraffe with one hand and drinking out of a chipped mug with the other. 

“What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Why didn’t you answer me?” Gregory asked pleadingly. 

Christophe glanced at his wall, and then back at Gregory, mouth still around the rim of his mug. 

“Chris… I want to talk this out,” Gregory begged, “Please.” 

Christophe put his mug down and opened his mouth, nothing more than a scratchy-sounding moan clawing its way out of his throat. 

“Will you stop it and just tell me what’s going on?!” Gregory hissed. 

Christophe slid out of bed, walking over to his desk and grabbing a coloring page of a giraffe, writing on the back in blue crayon before holding it up to Gregory. 

In poorly-scrawled English, Gregory could make out the words ‘I can’t talk… can barely hear… didn’t know you were outside.’ 

“Alright, Helen Keller, let me guess, you can’t see me either,” Gregory laughed. 

Christophe scribbled some more, holding the paper up again. 

‘Sick. In my ears.’ 

Gregory rolled his eyes, “Once again, I must ask if you’re still angry about what I said about Giraffe,” he scoffed. 

Christophe blinked at Gregory and rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue for Giraffe to get off of his bed, trailing about at his feet and purring. Grabbing the mug from his nightstand, Christophe trudged to his door, beckoning for Gregory to follow him. 

Gregory obliged, wandering downstairs- there wasn’t a grand marble staircase leading downstairs like there was at his house, just a creaking mass of varnished oak wood with a broken railing from when one of Christophe’s mothers got her belt loop caught on it and sawed a section off. 

Christophe wandered downstairs and sat Giraffe down on the kitchen counter, weakly smacking one of the cupboards with a wooden stick and poking at a metal tin until it fell into his arms. 

“You never did answer if you were angry about me saying Giraffe’s name was stupid,” Gregory nagged, stroking Giraffe on her pretty little head as she licked herself. 

Chocolat, another one of Christophe’s cats, a dark brown slender Burmese with two tails from a birth defect, hopped onto the counter, a ball of yarn in her mouth. 

“Christophe…please talk to me,” Gregory whined. 

Christophe gave a low, hoarse-sounding grunt. 

“Chriiisss, I’m sorry, come on, please?!” Gregory begged. 

Christophe slid the metal tin onto a different counter, shutting the cupboard door and grunting again. 

“ _ I… don’t even remember you calling Giraffe’s name stupid, but I hate you now _ ,” Christophe croaked in a tattered, squeaking voice. 

“Oh dear… you sound awful,” Gregory sighed. 

“ _ You- _ ” Christophe gave a harsh, frustrated grunt that sounded like a rusted bike chain grinding against the pavement, “ _ You bother me for twenty minutes to talk, and now you understand? _ ” 

“Well… that was different… I assumed you were giving me the silent treatment because you were angry… it’s different now- on other terms, have you got any tea?” Gregory asked. 

“ _ Non, lait chocolat and my mothers’ coffee _ ,” Christophe whispered, popping open the lid on the metal tin and wandering into the fridge, pouring a cup of milk and dumping a big scoopful of powder into it, stirring it up. 

“Of course you damn Frogs wouldn’t keep any tea in the house,” Gregory mumbled. 

Christophe blinked slowly and took a sip of his drink, he hadn’t heard the quiet statement. 

“How much sugar is in that garbage anyhow?” Gregory hissed. 

Christophe once again said nothing. 

“Come with me,” Gregory practically commanded, extending a hand for the French boy to grab onto. 

Christophe yawned, mouth stained with chocolate milk, and obliged, grabbing hold of Gregory’s hand and yelping as he hurried along behind his boyfriend, eyes widened past their original sleepy half-lid with shock. 

“ _ Où allons-nous? _ ” Christophe croaked, wiping the milk from around his mouth. 

“My house to get you some proper tea,” Gregory huffed, his upturned nose facing the early afternoon sky in the posh way it tended to… Christophe adored that boastful little motion, even if he’d never say it to Gregory out loud. 

“ _ But, my- _ ” Christophe hoarsely grunted, pawing at his throat with one hand and gesturing back to his house, not quite content to leave his cats or his stuffed animals at the moment. 

“Oh hush, it’s right across from yours, and I’ll have you back before your mothers come home or your cats shred up your things,” Gregory muttered. 

Christophe’s eyes watered for a moment, the French boy blinking back the tears and yanking on Gregory’s sleeve angrily, gesturing to his ears and jumping up and down on the dirt. 

“Oh, I’m horribly sorry, I forgot you’re half-deaf at the moment, I mean we’ll only be at my house a short while, promise,” Gregory said a little bit louder and closer to Christophe, who in turn only sighed and followed along through the massive doors of Gregory’s mansion, “My parents are out on a day-long date of sorts, so we needn’t worry about them.” 

Christophe rubbed at his eyes and felt himself being inched along as Gregory sat him down at the kitchen island, his arms resting on the polished marble. 

Christophe felt his eyelids drift shut until a few minutes later he was jostled awake by Gregory, the Brit holding a steaming hot cup of tea. 

“There you are, Dear, go on and drink up, it should help with your voice,” Gregory prodded, taking a bite of a cookie he’d snagged for himself, wiping his hands off on a towel hung against a cabinet. 

Christophe took an experimental sip and felt something vaguely sticky and sweet cascade down his throat alongside the hot tea… honey. Humming, Christophe shut his eyes and enjoyed the drink, a smile spreading around the opening of the cup. 

Gregory waited patiently until Christophe polished off the cup of tea, setting the empty mug down on the countertop, shuddering a little, “Better?” he asked. 

Christophe cleared his throat, opening his mouth and closing it a couple of times, before saying in a much less broken- but still hoarse- voice, “Mhm, much better, thank you.” 

“You definitely  **sound** better, I suppose that tea was what you needed,” Gregory chuckled, handing Christophe the box of tea, “Take it home with you, my family has loads more.” 

Christophe yawned, “Thank you, cherie… well, I guess I’m,” he paused to yawn again, his voice still rough as he slid off the chair at the kitchen island onto the floor, “Going-” another yawn “-home now.” 

Gregory furrowed his brows and tilted his head to the side, a lock of his golden hair falling in his face, “Do you want to go home straight away, or would you rather have a nap in the den for a little while… father just installed seat heating for the wrap-around sofa in the den and your zoo blanket is still here,” he proposed. 

Christophe’s eyelids drooped and he vaguely gestured toward the stairs, letting Gregory lead him up the polished staircase into the den, flopping over into Gregory’s lap, feeling the deep warmth of the sofa as Gregory turned on some random cartoon before handing Christophe his blanket. 

It took a grand total of one minute for Christophe to fall asleep, snoring gently against Gregory, not giving a damn about his throat, his ears, his cats, or anything else for that matter from that fresh afternoon until sunset when he woke up. 

In his sleepy bliss, Christophe thought to himself how a lot of cheesy American romance movies press on communication, about how couples would be unhappy if they didn’t talk. Given how wonderfully today went with him speaking as little as he did, the chuckle-worthy saying holds water, sometimes silence is golden.    
  



End file.
